


Lord of Tricksters

by KeeperLavellan



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dark Solas, F/M, Fen'Harel POV, Kinda Crazy TBH, Psycho Solas, unhinged
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-03-17 00:00:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3507539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeeperLavellan/pseuds/KeeperLavellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d been the first god to smile upon one of The People in two thousand years and in the span of a month {an instant} she’d forgotten. His careful machinations and subtle plotting felled the entire pantheon to bring Elvhenan low, a fall {folly} that persisted in legend and changed the face of Thedas. Yet in the new world he'd created, Fen’Harel now faced a prey too quick for the slow arrow— a fleeting shadow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. She {the Anchor}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Fen'Harel

Her fondness for Blackwall had always given Fen’Harel pause {she craved the company of liars}. From the moment they’d found the Grey Warden by Lake Luthias, she’d shown {far too much} interest in the shemlen’s stories {lies}. He suspected she wasn’t interested in the Warden {she lusted after elven men} so much as _The_ Warden {another quick shadow}, but he couldn’t be sure.

Many more pressing concerns {the fade}{Wisdom}{the Breach} demanded his attention, yet he could not abide the idea of his magic {the Anchor} in Grey Warden hands— literally {nauseating} or figuratively {dangerous}. So Fen’Harel became [the hunter in the woods](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2760119/chapters/6188690) once more and waited for her to stumble across his path {she smelled like panicked prey}. There he proved that if she {the elf} wanted Grey Warden stories, he knew all the best ones {Alistair gave his elf a rose}.

Fen'Harel had never seduced a mortal before {why bother?}, and it felt every bit as hollow {boring} as he’d expected. He simply smiled and closed his lips around the mouth of her flask {he imagined her nipple}, and she blushed {the Wolf could smell her sex}. That was all it took. Her {ridiculous} obsession with the Wardens {and Blackwall} evaporated, and a {rightful} interest in “Solas” emerged.

This pleased him. Fen’Harel could not influence the Inquisition by insinuating himself into the {racist, shemlen} War Council, but what did he care? He could {control it directly} become her mentor. By virtue of their pointed ears, the world saw only a doddering mage fool enough to prattle on and a shy apostate {slave} too polite to escape his lecturing {the Anchor would never escape him}.

She showed {natural} interest in his {well toned} aura, and it took some research {hysterical} to better understand why {flabby modern magic}. [His disguise needed work.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2760119/chapters/6191792) That brought the Wolf's interest to a rabbit hole of a different sort: the Circle. As he struggled {not to laugh} with centuries of magical {mis-} understanding that he so desperately needed to learn {to hide}.

Then came the curiosity of Redcliffe {something new!} and he became so preoccupied {could _he_ go back?} that he failed to notice weeks had slipped by {only a heartbeat!}. After returning a few of the Enchanter's tomes {garbage} one night, he spotted the {shemlen} Warden leading the elf to her cabin {outrageous}.

From his vantage on the hill, Fen’Harel saw that when the shemlen kissed her hand {his Anchor!} she did not pull away {was she perversely curious?}. The bearded man bowed and called her “my lady” {he wanted to fuck her} and she smiled {would she actually let him?}. The thought of her hand {HIS ANCHOR} wrapped around a shemlen cock {GREY WARDEN} sparked outrage like he’d never known.

Exactly how much attention did the {fickle} child require?

He’d been the first god to smile upon one of The People in two thousand years and in the span of a month {an instant} she’d forgotten. His careful machinations and subtle plotting felled the entire pantheon to bring Elvhenan low, a fall {folly} that persisted in legend and changed the face of Thedas. Yet in the new world he'd created, Fen’Harel now faced a prey too quick for the slow arrow— a fleeting shadow.

Subtlety would no longer do. The Dread Wolf nicked a longbow to gift the elf in her sleep {delicious irony} and resolved to take her into the woods {alone} for a display of [blatant innuendo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2760119/chapters/6202628) {sexual domination} and raw power {bloodshed}. And when next they found a rift a few days {seconds} later, he followed through by letting a [Pride Demon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2760119/chapters/6206159) sweep her off her feet {the irony} so that he could rescue her {the Anchor}, straddle her {such narrow hips}, trail his mouth along the edge of her ear {her quick pulse quickened}, and whisper a single word {fascinating}.

It was heavy handed to be sure, but so was she {the Anchor}. If he were to ever regain his magic {his birthright}, he could not let her {the Anchor} slip from his grasp; he could not lose {control of} her {the Anchor}.

But a month later {minutes at best}, he nearly did— Corypheus {pretender} fell on Haven. That she {the elf} stood toe to toe with a magister {however pathetic} to bring down a mountain {hardly} impressed Fen’Harel {his magic burned inside her}. What impressed the Wolf was how the shemlen fell to their knees before her {his Anchor}. Millennia had passed since he’d last craved worship, but to see it second hand stirred something within {arousal}.

The humans were awed by his {divine} power {his Anchor}, and yet however {masturbatory} his pride in her {the Anchor}, Fen'Harel could not help but relish the idea of the rest of him inside her as well. So after he told her about the orb {royal we} and [called her lethallin](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2760119/chapters/6221405) {his own kin!}, he determined to enthrone her in Tarasyl'an Te'las {his pride!}. Then the Wolf lured the Dalish First from the safety of her camp {ironically, something he'd never done}.

In the warmth of the [hot spring](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2760119/chapters/6229979), Fen’Harel wondered how long a mortal would last {days?}. Even in the extremity of his youth he’d taken no less than a month {a week once, alone}. In his prime, _years_ seemed an embarrassment {oh, how Andruil insulted him} and he’d taken his pleasure with {he could not even recall her name} through four ages. The idea of mere hours {the blink of an eye} seemed inherently wrong {shem}, and therefore illicit {furtive}. His curiosity was piqued, at any rate {he loved a challenge}.

But when he saw the impossibly quick throbbing of her carotid artery {like a hummingbird}, he began to doubt. Could he even comprehend that pace? He determined himself to make no move {he would need to practice}, when she {suddenly} offered herself to him. He’d known {hated that} she was branded, but seeing it was something else {stomach churning}.

Poisoned blood dripped down her throat and seared the top of each {otherwise perfect} breast, a {vile} rune that crossed {shackled} her hips to claim her children, her legs to claim her freedom, her mouth to claim her worship, her eyes to claim her sight. However little Fen’Harel cared for the Dalish, it grieved him {broke his heart} to see anyone {of The People} so marred {disfigured} by blood magic. To know that she {his Anchor} took pride in having June’s fingerprint spoil every inch of her?

{OUTRAGE}

{Mercifully} the rune lay dormant and {mercifully} June could not claim her {his Anchor}. Yet {yet}. The thought sobered him {June _would_ waste her}. She {the elf} had been only a means to an end {his Anchor}, but she {the elf} did not deserve that {slavery}. He would have to bind her {claim the enchantment} and release her {the spell: ar lasa mala revas} to dispel the rune’s power.

This {her guaranteed freedom} would require an altogether different approach {a trick}. He didn’t need her to fuck him— he needed her to trust him.

He needed the slow arrow after all. 

{He always did.}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My answer to the question, "how dark is dark when it comes to Fen'Harel?" Cluttered, chaotic, egomaniacal, and contradictory...because dude ain't right. Technically this covers the first six chapters of Apotheosis from the Dread Wolf's perspective, but meant to stand alone.
> 
> I wouldn't....necessarily say this is my canon-Solas, but its mighty close.


	2. A Single Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For an immortal who calls himself Pride, I can only imagine the certain torment of seeing his magic in mortal hands.

He allowed himself another instant of contemplation in the hot spring before returning to camp at dawn.

Taking possession {ownership} of a slave {a person} did not require the {mutual} consent of {spiritual} possession {alas, Felassan}, so Fen’Harel could {technically}{easily}{trick} ask her {the elf} to say the words {“bind me”}. Intent was irrelevant— slavers in {corrupted} Arlathan did it with a {barbed} whip {bloody, broken, bleeding, evil}. But if he were to grant her freedom {an apology for the Anchor} he needed {desired} her {enthusiastic} consent.

That would be a {worthy} trick indeed.

She {the elf} was {dogmatic}{superstitious}{ignorant} Dalish to the core and would not leave her "culture” {cage} for trust alone— besides, she trusted {flirted with} everyone {indiscriminately}. In the span of a heartbeat, she {the shadow} had given her complete {perfect}{utter}{unshakeable}{bottomless} trust to a {total stranger} mage {Tevinter} by virtue of his {meager} aptitude for a single spell. She {the elf} called him lethallin {literally not possible}, a {linguistic abuse} kindness the mage could not fathom {he didn’t even _want_ her}. She also trusted the {dreamless} durgen’len storyteller {a liar by definition}, the {brainwashed} Qunari spy {a liar by definition}, the Grey Warden {a liar by definition}.

Most {amusingly}{delightfully}{ironically}{importantly} of all, she trusted the Dread Wolf {a liar by definition}.

In this {alone} the Dalish had failed her {spectacularly}{deliciously}. The {only} thing he had {ever} admired about her "people" was their wariness {distrust} in all things {political}{shemlen}{flat-ear}{foreign}. Self-aggrandizing perhaps {certainly}, as it was the only tenet of his {shortsighted} rebellion: trust is {always}{unfailingly} a mistake.

{He could still see his own blood bright on the gentle curve a halla’s horn.}

{He could still feel her tongue lapping at the wound.}

Fen’Harel trusted none of them {but Compassion}, yet he would not let that {pettiness} stop him from granting the {too trusting} elf her freedom {so far as he could}{the Anchor posed a dilemma}. In the new world to come {old knowledge would reemerge} and he would not leave her {slave runes} vulnerable {to binding}. She {the Anchor} could not become another’s weapon, she {the elf} deserved revas.

For one {horrific} instant after finding Tarasyl'an Te'las {the lynchpin that held back the sky}, Fen’Harel feared he must snuff out any {every} such hope. With a single gesture, she {the elf} bent his {HIS} magic to her {HER} will, not to mend the veil but to tear it {TERROR}— a nightmare not even he {the Bringer of Nightmares} had considered.

Fen’Harel wasn’t proud when the thought crossed his mind {a Tranquil would obey}, but he’d sacrificed those he’d loved before {and would do so again}. He would not hesitate to strike down a shadow {one blow, kind and quick in the fade}. The veil was {so, so, so, so} fragile in the mountains {where the sky was held back} that if she damaged the {tissue thin} lineaments surrounding Tarasyl'an Te'las, the Breach would be remembered as the rope burn before a hanging {also: dying again would be inconvenient}.

To his {immeasurable} relief, she {the elf} had some {prodigious}{instinctive} talent and he need not toss another {wasted} life into the gaping maw of his {great} mistake. She had only {ONLY?!} used the Anchor {his magic} to pop a single {delicate} pinprick that released an inversely powerful torrent {maelstrom} of energy. Yet for all its {chaotic} fury, her {HER} handiwork left no scar {how did she not rend the veil?}.

At last it dawned on him— the elf was so {gloriously} shem that she perceived fleeting threads of energy too minute for his notice {her slim fingers could split an atom}. A {delicious}{deviant}{delightful} definite surprise. Her {firm} grasp of the Anchor {his very essence} made his pride {cock} swell. He {trembled} wondered idly what {exquisite pleasure} would result from the Anchor being cast back to him {unspeakable release}.

To distract himself from that {particularly distracting} thought {fantasy}, he turned to his long-neglected art {every paint a potion}{every brushstroke a glyph}{every scene pooling mana}{a spell that took years to cast}. He preserved the events of {his fall} her rise, {nuanced} reverberations of {raw} emotion no language could contain. Then he delved {twenty ages deep} to recover the lost memories of Tarasyl'an Te'las and wandered the woods {in search of Wisdom to tame the Wolf}.

It was no more than the leisure of a single afternoon {a few lazy hours of contemplation}, but once again {maddeningly} Fen'Harel's perception mislead {tricked} him. He blinked up from quiet meditation to find her {the elf} suddenly {dramatically} different. In the span of that afternoon, she’d taken up The Game.

Her understanding was {rudimentary to be} sure, {but} competent. Promising. She dressed “Skyhold” in the trappings of every {undeserving} race and nation of Thedas {so, so clever} but wore shemlen finery {pandering, yet not overly so}. Even her carriage had changed; she no longer prowled about like a {skittish} Dalish {hiding in the woods} but moved with cultured grace. He had {perhaps} underestimated the Antivan ambassador.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say a huge thanks to everyone who commented on my first chapter! I know that The Lord of Trickers is more than a little insane, darker than even I expected, and difficult to handle {on a number of levels, as Lavellan might say}. It means a lot that you'd read along and give him {me} a chance.
> 
> This covers chapters seven and eight of Apotheosis (linked above for the curious).


	3. Sleep to Dream Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody pop a Dramamine® before getting started, when the Dread Wolf's in a fever pitch, his thoughts take on the churning, chaotic symmetry of a whirlpool.

He {maddeningly} found her {the Anchor} {pretending to be} asleep by the campfire, utterly {exposed} oblivious {to rifts less than a quarter mile off} to the world around her— {as if} Keeper Hawen’s wards could fend off {anything but the most harmless} demons. In the midst of a {pathetic} [Dalish camp](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2760119/chapters/6260195), her {the elf’s} ease {carelessness} was {nothing} to be understood; {he could not fathom how} she {a thing so easily killed} relished sleeping {in the dirt like a vagrant} under the open sky.

Of course, {in exile} Fen’Harel {reluctantly} appreciated nights spent with {the indignity of} nothing more than a blanket of stars— but then again, he was a wolf {a god fashioned from fangs, fur, and Fade}. He couldn’t help but prefer freedom {in the crystal spires of Arlathan} to civilization {in ashes}, but the {astonishing poverty of the} Dalish camp provided neither to his satisfaction.

While she {the fragile elf} might {die of exposure}{fall to possession}{be assaulted by the drunken hunter leering across the fire} not wish to camp with the Inquisition, he could not {allow her recklessness to} leave her {the Anchor} in such a {defenseless} state. So when the {unfamiliar} Dalish woman {shadow} tried to dismiss him, he {the Dread Wolf} only smiled to bid her goodnight {a small spell curling her mind, her feet, her eyes, her awareness from the fire} as kindly as he could {the spell would bring no Nightmares}.

Watching her {the elf} {feign} sleep stirred something in him {he loved tricks}, and Fen’Harel could not resist {playing one of his own while} sitting beside her {the Anchor}. He wanted to take her {hmmmm} hand {his Anchor} in his {could he syphon off some of its power?}, but instead he chastely touched his fingertips to {stroke} the {tight} rows of her newly braided hair.

She {the little trickster}{eventually} slept through the night, drifting in and out of the Beyond {deliciously} oblivious to “Solas” {her shem pulse was far too felas}. That she slept so soundly {in the Dread Wolf’s grasp} pleased {aroused} him greatly; he knew {saw} how nightmares of Corypheus {his terrible mistake} often plagued her {did he not owe her {the elf}{himself} some measure of peace{pleasure{ecstasy}?}

Briefly {the mere duration of the moon’s arc}, he noticed the curve of her {slim} ears {and their exquisite length}; in the days of Arlathan, they would be dripping in gold {were she not a slave}{or dead in the failure of his rebellion}, a thought that caused his {thoughts} thumb to wander {had she ever been pierced?}{did she cry out?}{what would that sound like?}{did an edge of pain excite her?}.

Her quick pulse quickened in response to his touch— she knew.

The {slave} markings on her cheek twitched with an unformed smile. For one wild instant {a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a second} he imagined staying {leave, leave, leave, leave, {he wondered how she’d scream {how she’d taste {oh, he’d feast on her {make her forget everything {hold her {she deserved {to know what a god {Fen’Harel} wanted} that} tight} Dalish} cunt} coming} for the Wolf’s tongue} NOW!}.

Tension twitched at his fingers and he left before he {devoured} startled her.

{Not that} he could trust her {the Anchor’s} safety to the Dalish {so he watched {lusted} from a distance} until sunrise {an instant later}. The {wretched} Dalish hunter she’d recruited {surely she was lonely} appeared to coax the campfire back to life {crouching obnoxiously near her {the Anchor}}, forcing “Solas” to intervene. The {still drunk} boy would wake her with his {clumsy} efforts, so Fen’Harel sparked the {fear of} fire to life in {the sethlin’s heart} the coals {and the shadow was driven back}.

He sat {alone with the Anchor}, stoking the {far more dangerous} fire {she somehow kindled} and setting the kettle {of his fevered thoughts} to boil. When her {shining} spirit finally returned from the Fade, [the elf stretched](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2760119/chapters/6263207) {rolling her hips to greet him} and licked her {blood poisoned} lips to smile up at Solas {the most vapid construct of blandness}.

Fen’Harel felt a {murderous} pang of jealousy— no one had ever smiled at the Wolf so sweetly {fearing nothing, demanding nothing, hiding nothing, hating nothing, regretting nothing, judging nothing}. And with all the subtle complexity he’d thought lost with Elvhenan, she {the elf} alluded to the protectiveness {possessiveness} he’d shown the previous night {and offered herself once more}.

Her words provoked him {the Wolf} so unexpectedly that he didn’t even have time to think how _Solas_ would reply— he saw only June’s slave in his temple {begging for attention}. It was Fen’Harel that spoke, and the sharp intake of her gasp {oh, to imagine {answering her fervent prayers} that little mouth worshiping {swallowing} him} sent desire pooling into his belly {cock}.

That she responded {the Wolf caught scent of her arousal} to _him_ {not calm, placid Solas} was nearly Fen’Harel’s undoing. He nearly rounded on her {those perfect ears flushed pink} but managed to tear his gaze away, buying time to replace the mask. What would {……..} Solas say? He flailed {her world clipped by in a blaze of seconds, hurry!} to say something, anything else {something dour enough to suit her “hahren”}, and then he was gone.

He returned to Tarasyl'an Te'las consumed by his mistake.

She {the Anchor} was {his} the Inquisition’s only hope to defeat Corypheus {reclaim Fen’Harel’s power}. He could not let her glimpse {dread} the Wolf. He could not afford to consider her {THE ANCHOR} as a {person} woman. It wasn’t a {The} game. It was the whole world, the Fade, The People, every spirit ruined in the rifts, the Gods below, the souls of the wellspring, and all that he’d lost {abandoned} to the arms of eternity.

The world would be born anew, and in it she {the elf} deserved freedom. That much he could ensure {somehow}, but it would be folly to think of her {the Anchor} as anything other than {a tool} the Inquisitor.

Yet when he dreamed [he dreamed of her](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2760119/chapters/6269666) {the elf}, and when he dreamed of her he _felt_ {she represented the culmination of his failure}, and when he felt he lied {a figure of speech}, and when he lied she kissed him {she craved the company of liars}, and when she kissed him she put her {greedy} little hand on his neck, inviting the Wolf out to play.

[It wasn't right](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2760119/chapters/6274709) {it was real}.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This covers chapters nine through twelve of Apotheosis.


	4. Don't Think It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not terribly concerned with nailing down a {canon} timeline in Apotheosis, but since these chapters clip by so fast and since Fen'Harel experiences time so oddly, I think it's worth noting that I imagine this to be set roughly eight months after the Breach. Six months in Haven, plus two months settling down into Skyhold...

Fen’Harel had once been known to {dominate} countless players of The Game thanks to his cunning {tongue}, and even the Dalish acknowledged his {absolute} dominion in the Fade, so when he met her {the {guileless} elf} in {the memory of} Haven he did not expect that she would leave him {reeling}.

Despite {months of anxious} concern over what she {the elf} might do with the {stolen} power left {Anchored} in her hand, Fen’Harel never noticed what she intended with her right until {it was too late.} she laid {the spiritual ideal of} her unmarked hand upon his neck. But instead of mere {frenzied} passion, he felt something far more {dangerous}: peace.

{While trapped in} the waking world {he} thought she was no more than {the Anchor} an{d a quickling} elf, swept up in the chaos of the {mortal existence he’d damned her to long before the} Breach, but he saw {in the} Beyond that {she was {primal}{like her magic}{brilliant to behold}{unpredictable} elemental}.

Fen'Harel was {don’t think it}struck by the realization— she was both lightning incarnate and the slow rolling storm, a force of nature bereft of Pride.

It was the reason that she {the Anchor} did not {ab}use her power for political gain, why she {the Inquisitor} did not resent the burdens {{t}he {shemlen} unwittingly} placed upon her, why she {the mortal} did not relish human worship, why she {the Dalish} did not disdain The People, why she {the woman} did not balk at the advances of a hahren twice her {entire civilization’s} age.

“Why she,” interrupted [Compassion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2760119/chapters/6278198), “the Halla, prepares for the Lion.”

The slip of a spirit called Cole stood preternaturally pale against the Fade-driven snow, taking a {make-believe} breath before schooling his ({it wanted to be a boy}) voice with Ferelden authority.

“Maker, she's so small. If only she’d been Harrowed.... Andraste forgive me.”

“Cole…?”

His voice turned reedy and thin once more. “Little pebbles bite into her knees, sharp as the teeth, and it reminds her,” he gasped and slipped into a Dalish brogue, “oh, god, Fen’Harel take me if anything happens to that ring, fuck. I will not leave this moment to haunt him. Commander, this is on my order.”

({Despite being a god}), he felt only dull horror at whatever ({fragmented Dalish prayer}) the spirit implied. An instant later, a shockwave of raw psychic energy tore {through her} across the veil, an outrage that sent Fen'Harel bounding from the Fade and nearly headlong into the Seeker {Faith resonating from her every pore}.

Yet she was tight-lipped {terrified} over whatever {maddeningly abstract} injury had befallen his {don’t think it}…her. The Seeker led him to the tower where she {don’t think it} lay unconscious, and {in a fit of unspeakable irony} entrusted the Herald of Andraste to the Maker{’s Maker} while leaving the Dread Wolf to answer a Keeper{’s sylvanwood prayer}.

It was a {frenzied} hour composed of {dizzying} instants: establishing his {sole} right to her{. } care”.”({fully}) Persuading Cole to help {distract the shelmlen mages}, searching for her in the Fade, and threading his magic into the Anchor lest she slip away {once more}.

Fen’Harel was {furious} beyond consolation until she {don’t think it} opened her eyes {they were green!}.

And when {the madness of} every {helpless} second that bled {inexorably} into the next {impossible revelation that} left him spinning {lies and half-truths and evasions}, she had the Dread Wolf [eating from the palm of her hand](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2760119/chapters/6282833) and hanging from her [every promise](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2760119/chapters/6309845). He touched the warmth of her {his} heart, kissed her {branded} forehead, her {perfect} ear, {crawled {undeserving} into her bed} and sat beside her while she slept.

He lingered another moment {maybe seven hours} aware of one thing:

{S}he very nearly killed her{self}.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This covers chapters thirteen through fifteen of Apotheosis.
> 
> I think it's important to note that it's the scope of this story and not Fen'Harel's nature that confines these chapters to the{ir} romance. I'm sure the Wolf spends 95% of his time thinking about His Problems, the Big Picture, Duty, and Other Things of Which I Cannot Know.


	5. Vhenan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the closest I'll ever come to outlining the sort of background I imagine for Fen'Harel, but it's mostly inspired by the idea that while he was beloved by two pantheons, Wolfy has a habit of failing those who care for him most. It's a jumbled up conglomeration of the tale of Dirthamen and the Ravens retold with Fen'Harel's penchant for viewing spirits in an unconventional light.

In the end, {s}he didn’t have a choice.

He reached for her {the Anchor} on instinct; falling to his death {was intolerable}. Fen’Harel plunged {his magic} deep into the heart of {her, rending} the worlds. The veil parted, a rift {of his own making,} so elegant not even a single spirit was displaced by their passing.

Fen’Harel wanted to laugh {madly {with glee {as the Dalish {she} would say}}, but he{r radiance} stayed his hand. Free from the Veil{’s dichotomy} she was neither the {melancholy} shemlen he knew in the waking world, nor the {impulsive} spirit he {be}longed to{.} set free. She was who{le; } spirit and flesh knit with magic— a being of unspeakable light, exactly as Co{mpassion’s hyperbo}le predicted.

She {the elf} stared at hi{s kingdo}m in wonder, {emerald} eyes triumphant, and Fen’Harel could only smile{ counting birds against the sun}. He yearned to shed his dusty {mortal} cloak {alas, Felassan} and bound to her side. Places far more wondrous awaited, where spirits of Curiosity and Hope would gather to greet the Wolf and his…{don't think it.}

Dread coiled within him. If she met the Wolf, would it be fear or worship that drove her to her knees? {Would the Wolf even care? {N{oh, to see her tremble}o. }Yes!} Fen’Harel forced a bitter exhale; {s}he would find satisfaction in neither.

When she asked if Solas had ever explored the region before, he demurred. Of course, he’d never _choose_ to explore a place Fear held {in his stead}, much less in the {borrowed} flesh {of a friend}. Not while {fami}liar spirits swarmed about in service to their Lord {of Tricksters}.

The pre{dictable es}sence of Fear was ob{li}vious to {D}read despite the rippling mists of the Fade. Fear came to the {Bringer of }Nightmare’s vast domain long ago, the black {winged} shadow that raised him. He called it a f{r}iend, whispering {Wisdom} in the dark: run {lest they catch you,} hide {beneath my wings}, abandon {false }hope, {do not} despair!

He learned as a child that Fear, however{ stern}, was never {un}kind. It hunted {with }Fen’Harel for centuries beyond counting, {st}ripping away his sense of self{ish Pride} until he knew only pain{staking caution}, a memory which seemed to be {te}aching him still.

Some {five thousand} years before, it was the Wolf who se{n}t fear upon {Dirtha}men. It was meant to be a war{ning}, a reckoning of reckless Death{, their {so-called} Falon}. But Fear was denied its purpose, trampled underfoot, thus conquered, {corrupted,} and bound {to Deceit}. Without Fear {of Hubris}, the Wolf came to {be} know{n} as Pride— He Who Hunts Alone.

There was so much Fear {of depravity} never let the Wolf enjoy, and so for a thousand years Pride reveled in its absence. The Wolf grew raucous in his freedom, his feasts spilled {blood and} wine {and seed} across Elvhenan. Not even Elgar’nan could resist {his charm,} granting divinity to the {Forgotten} One whose revelry appeased his {wicked} heart.

It was the Golden Age of Arlathan, a time{less eon} when The People lived without Fear.

Gre{edy obstin}ate gods reigned without Fear {of reprisal}, armies of the {self}righteous battled without Fear {of casualties}, p{etty, insid}ious nobles lived without Fear {of rebellion}, and hum{iliated, tracta}ble slaves served without Fear {to shake their resignation}.

But with his hunger finally sated, the Wolf saw himself {ad}mired in filth. Pride was {self-centered,} not blind. He abandoned his temple to seek Wisdom, who distilled the ocean of his experience into a single truth. Feasting and fucking and fighting and finery were but facets of that which he loved above all else: Freedom.

Pride returned to Arlathan without Fear{ of failure,} sparking the revolution that damned Elvhenan. The Wolf had no Fear{ of reprisal} when he shamed both {Pan}the{ons} wicked and corrupt, no Fear{ of quickening} when he wove the Veil. And without Fear{ of betrayal} he left {Ghilan'nain at} Mythal’s side….

Only after sealing the Pantheons away did Fear come crawling back {wings broken, Deceit at its side, blood slicked}, slippery and sly. Fen’Harel lacked the strength{ of will} to kill what {br}other {Dirtha}men so easily mastered{ it was in his nature to set slaved things free}, and so while he slept in uthenera, Fear {and Deceit} crept into his soul.

Together they darkened to Dread, and the veil reverberated with the dreams of its Maker— fevered nightmares of rebellion and betrayal that shaped a generation. The Wolf woke no longer Harillen but Harel; Arlathan fallen, Andraste exalted, the Dales granted then lost, The People scattered, and his name a curse.

He left Fear {safe} in the Fade to confront Corypheus,{ it was Deceit he needed to open the orb,} never dreaming that it would be enthralled {once more}. Now it called him _Harellan,_ and for once he could not argue. There was nothing and no one his mission could spare, an epitaph Fear carved across the grave of his heart: expendable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This covers chapters sixteen and seventeen of Apotheosis, though it mirrors neither in particular.
> 
> The idea that it's Fen'Harel who opens the rift that lands them in the Fade is just based on the fact that the Inquisitor at no other time opens a direct Fade portal...
> 
> Many, many thanks to Froobie for helping me condense my concept of Rial's greatest fear into a single word. Oh, how it burns!!!!


	6. He{i}r

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this emerged from a [writing prompt](http://canticle-of-apotheosis.tumblr.com/post/128189431352/okay-okay-papa-solas-i-beg-you) on tumblr, and corresponds to Apotheosis chapter 18.

It galled him.

The epitaph.

Dying Alone.

How pedestrian. As if he {Who Hunts Alone} feared an empty bed, as if Sol{as’ grat}itude {f}or companionship meant anything at all.

In the weeks following Adamant, the {Bringer of} Nightmare{s} drove him{self} to distraction. He redoubled his efforts to recall where veil artifacts had been installed {ten} ages before, mapped those she {the Anchor} could safely reach, or{dered} sent{inel} scouts to activate the ones she {the elf} could not.

He walked {unwaking} through the {Brecilian} woods, until he found {the Lady of} the forest’s temple. Wolves ran {to greet him} as he descended, but magic {warmth} at his cheek pulled him home.

{Home?}

One {traitorous} hand found the curve of her neck, and bleary eyes delved where they should not. She {the elf} sat lightly on the edge of his bed, bent at the waist and {entirely} un{aware}selfconscious of the way her tunic billowed open.

“Something’s terribly wrong with Cole,” she said.

Her hair was tangled and lank, falling across eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. More than that. Distress. Compassion {for Compassion}. Hope. {I need you{, she said{, or was that {his{ don’t think it}}}}.

The thought came to him unbidden: was this how fathers woke in the night?

“Lethallin.”

Fen’Harel did not fear dying alone.

He feared that he would not leave {an} he{i}r.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and yes, I am vibrating with excitement for Trespasser.


End file.
